


She drags my world awake

by KittyAugust (KittyAug)



Series: Of Hunters and Hellblazers [25]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Constantine (TV), Death (Comics), Hellblazer, Supernatural, The Sandman (Comics), Vertigo (Comics)
Genre: Brujeria, Cake, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Kidnapping, Lingua Latina, M/M, Mystery, Oblivion Bar, Other, Pie, Plot, Rising Darkness, The Darkness - Freeform, The Laughing Magician
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3359120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyAug/pseuds/KittyAugust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Darkness Rises. Death pays John Constantine a visit. There's a break for pie, then things get complicated. </p><p>Oh, and Slayers. Way too many Slayers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Visit Me In Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from _She_ by The Damned.
> 
> For reference: [Death of the Endless](http://www.deviantart.com/art/Death-257076316) and [Death (Supernatural)](http://images4.fanpop.com/image/photos/21900000/5-21-Two-Minutes-to-Midnight-death-supernatural-21997858-1280-720.jpg)
> 
> * * *
> 
> And of course many thank yous, and bunnies and hugs to [wtinp](http://wheretimeisneverplanned.tumblr.com/) for the beta!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter occurs an unspecified amount of time after [Confessing...](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3164282)

“You ‘ere for me, luv?” John asks sleepily. He should probably be scared. Or something. Actually, lack of adrenal response? Maybe she _is_ here for him? He looks back into the bed behind him but there’s nothing there but a pillow and a sleeping hunter.

She shakes her head and smiles at him. That soft sweet smile that makes so many willingly walk into her arms. Peaceful promises of endless rest and painless nothing.

“Bugger, you’re not here for the lad are ya?” John’s never literally fucked someone to death. But there’s a first for everything and he’s almost willing to believe that he is actually toxic enough to do it. He’d been hoping that demon blood wouldn’t agree with the Mark but not like _that_.

But Death just shakes her head again. Moves from her position at the end of the bed to sit down on its edge next to John. Still smiling soft and serene.

“No, John. I’m not here for either of you. Although I _will_ come in person for each.” She reaches out to pick up his hand and he lets her. Because she is what she is. Utterly unstoppable. The ultimate end. She gets to do what she wants. “Anyway, you’re _both_ rather good at avoiding me. Don’t you think?”

He shrugs. “Luck’s gotta run out some time, luv.”

“One would assume,” she says, smile far too knowing for his liking. “I’m not here for a collection, John. I’m here to ask for a favour.” Her universe deep eyes meet his and he swallows back some of that genuine mortal fear.

That… doesn’t sound good. The thing about a favour for one of the Endless is that it sounds like a good deal. Having one of Them owe you sounds like something you want. But it’s a con, a fawney rig. Brass for gold. It always costs more than you think. And it means getting involved in a whole new level of fucked up world melting bad. They play at the universal level and he’s just a fucked up little punk from Liverpool. This was never what he signed up for. Not that it’s ever really a choice though. Not with Them.

“What,” he says, not quite asks, as suspiciously as he dares. Takes back his hand so he can light a ciggie while he processes whatever it is she’s about to force on him. He feels the warm star-forged metal of her ring slide against his skin and tries not to shudder.

“It’s Fate she…” Death starts to say.

“No,” he interrupts her. Which is stupid. Really pig-headed, arse over ears, moronic. But… no. Just _no_.

She looks at him impassively while he realises that he just interrupted the most powerful being in, and above, all creation.

The thing is, the Three Sisters are an entity which he has had more than enough to do with for ten lifetimes. Not to mention he’s pretty sure the middle one flirts with him and the other two want him obliterated. Which… okay, even when you _don’t_ have the universe’s biggest case of split personality, that _is_ a pretty normal reaction to John Constantine. But it’s still bleeding creepy.

“Why can’t sodding Destiny deal with it, whatever _it_ is?” John asks, only a little plaintively. Because he knows it isn’t really worth fighting this, but there’s something in him that won’t let him yield that easy. Even to Death. And that right there is kind of his whole story really. “They’re his b… kids.”

Or whatever. Offspring? Progeny? Aspects? What to call the children of the Endless probably isn’t the most pertinent question of the night really.

“Because he’s Destiny,” Death says with a sigh and a shrug. It’s a very human gesture. One he knows all too well. He’s seen Cheryl do it. And Chas come to think of it. Normally after the words ‘Because he’s John’ and normally when he’s completely rat arsed drunk or about to do something world endingly stupid. So, you know, quite bloody often. The parallel would be funny if it wasn’t terrifying.

“Right. Let me rephrase. Why _me_?”

“Because you are what you _are_ , John,” she says. Gives him another infuriatingly soft smile. Sometimes he thinks he’s a little bit in love with her. It would explain a lot. “For this, I need the Laughing Magician. And at the moment that would be _you_.”

The last bit wasn’t necessary. He was already well and truly aware of all the pain and hellfire that particular heritage brought down on him. And, yeah alright, sometimes helped him avoid some too. But it was still closer to a dig than a compliment.

He looks down at Winchester sleeping soundly through all this. At this point he doubts even another apocalypse would be able to wake anyone in the building. Even the damn angel is probably asleep thanks to Death’s influence. She always gets what she wants. Always gets everything eventually, even if she doesn’t want it. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and draws on a bit of inner steel he’s not always sure is there.

“An’ if I do this, _you_ will owe me one? That’s your offer?”

“Yes.”

He opens his eyes to watch her reaction. “An unspecified favour to be called in at me own convenience, yeah?”

“Yes,” she sighs it this time. Knows the very power she wants to exploit is probably going to get turned against her at some point. “Within the rules and reason of course.”

“Of course,” he says. Grimaces. Trust her to put on the perfect caveat. But he can work it. Probably. “Alright, let’s talk terms. But I’m going to need tea. Proper goddamned tea not this American swill.”

She stands up and offers him her hand. “Scotland?” she suggests.

“No, you’ll make me eat another deep fried mars bar or sumthin’ and I’ll be sick.” He balances his fag on his lip while he looks around for his clothes. Otherwise she’ll just zap him off naked again. And no one will notice because he’s with Her but it’s still bloody uncomfortable. He swings his legs off the edge of the bed and starts putting his trousers on.

“Provençe?” she says in perfect French. Because even languages die.

“Sure,” John says. Nods towards the man next to him. “Do I get to tell ‘em where I’m going or do we just flutter off?”

She shrugs and waves her hand towards the sleeping Winchester, who blinks awake almost immediately. Without any supernatural force keeping him asleep, the presence in the room is enough to wake him. Hand already sliding for a weapon until his eyes fall on Death standing next to his bed.

“What the fuck is _he_ doing here,” Dean snaps. He scrambles back as though getting out of her reach will help. But at least the fear and disbelief is probably a healthier reaction to finding the Grim Reaper in your room. A lot healthier than John’s had been certainly. Ah well. No one ever accused John Constantine of being a model of humanity.

“Makin’ my _life_ more difficult,” John says and lets the emphasis show the mortal irony in that one. “And, hang on, _he_?”

Dean looks at John like he’s the crazy one. Which alright, maybe they’re equally matched in that one too. But still.

“Most mortals see me as they need to,” Death answers. And, yeah John knew that. Knew she had more than one face to choose from. He sees what she prefers because he is what he is and then bled himself dry becoming more. But he just assumed Winchester would go for the cute goth chick. Who wouldn’t?

And then Death’s visage flickers. For a moment she’s the skeleton, cloak and scythe and all. And then he sees what Dean must see. A tall angular man with those same galactic eyes in a gaunt face.

“Bloody hell Winchester, I thought I had daddy issues!”

Death laughs. Fading back to her feminine form (for John’s eyes at least) mid-way through. So he hears both the deep melodic baritone and the sweeter but equally dangerous alto he’s used to. That probably shouldn’t be sexy for a whole range of reasons that he’s not even going to worry about right now.

Winchester still looks like he’s seriously thinking about trying to stab Death with an angel blade.

“S’right luv,” John lies soothingly. “Won’t take long?”

Death shrugs and sort of nods – which is apparently all the guarantee he’s getting on that one. Fan-bloody-tastic.

John shrugs into his shirt then leans forward to kiss Winchester. Grabs him by the jaw and presses in firm and reassuring with a confidence he doesn’t really feel. He feels Dean stiffen at first, aware of Death’s presence, but then he must decide to throw caution to the wind again and melts into it. A hand ends up in John’s hair like Dean is going to drag him back down into the bed. But Death clears her throat and Winchester flinches back.

John smirks at him and pats his cheek before standing back up and offering Death his hand.

“You’re just going off with him,” Dean half-flails at Death. “Wait, you’re not dying are you?”

“No I’m not dying… well not as far as I know, any road.” John looks at Death but she remains unmoved. Patience tends to come with inevitability. “And what would _you_ do anyway?”

“Um…”

“Thought so. Don’t worry, luv. Won’t be a tick. Bring you back some of the god awful Tropézienne tart rubbish, yeah?”

“I… I don’t even know what that is?” Winchester manages to sound both pathetically defeated and dangerously grumpy at the same time. It’s fairly impressive.

“It’s sort of like a ‘pie’. You’ll love it, honest. Now, I’ve got some negotiations to win.” John smiles at Death with as much superiority as you can when you’re grinning at the End of all Ends.

Death rolls her eyes at John, winks at Winchester then grabs John’s hand. He gets one last glimpse of Winchester’s confusion before the word goes gold and they’re on a street corner in Toulon. It’s only then that he remembers he doesn’t even have his damn coat...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Fawney Rig (also called the Paris Ring Scam) is the con whereby a brass ring is passed off as being made of gold. Sold or traded for seemingly less than it is worth but really far more. It is also the name of Lady Constantine’s estate in her eponymous series (which also features in Sandman at various points).
> 
> The Fates/Fate thing will make more sense soon. Promise.


	2. Fated History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set immediately after SPN 6.17 _My Heart Will Go On_ \- the one where Balthazar unsinks the Titanic and they go up against Fate. This would make it early 2011.

**Several Years Earlier…**

“Sod off Spike,” John says before the vampire can steal into a seat at the bar next to him.

“Bugger you, mate.”

“No thanks. I really don’t need the Slayer cutting me head off. Nice offer though.”

“Ha, bloody ha,” Spike says. He gives a mild snarl but looks like he’s giving up to wander off to harass someone else. Which will leave John to his beer in peace for once. Thank Christ.

In fact John is just congratulating himself on a narrow escape when time freezes around him. Just what he bleeding needs. Angels or demi-gods – that’d teach him to try and drown his sorrows at Oblivion. He turns slowly to find the source of this latest disruption to an otherwise standard evening. Everyone else in the pub is frozen - and considering the clientele that means this was either targeted at him by something very powerful or done by someone who can affect _everything_ else but not him... which means...

“Atropos?” John says when he spots her curled over and sobbing in one of the demon skin booths.

She looks up, face blotchy and eyes red. “Oh, great. You!” she says with venom.

“Yeah, me,” John sighs. Part of him just wants to stay put. Or maybe run away. But who knows how long she’ll keep this up for. So he gets up, grabs his beer and grudgingly goes over to take the seat on the other side of the booth. “So, how much booze _does_ it take to get Fate trolleyed?”

“Lots,” she says before collapsing back onto her arms. And, yeah, sobbing. Brilliant.

Could be worse though, at least it isn’t Lachesis – she’s scary enough sober. John isn’t sure what would happen if he ever encountered the middle Fate sister when she had managed to drink half of old Jim Rook’s 'special' top shelf. The mere thought is enough to have him suppress a shudder.

“So,” he says. Sucks on his teeth while he tries to find a way out of this mess. “Any particular reason you’ve stopped time?”

“Oh,” she says looking up again. “Oops.” Time starts to flow again. John is amused to see the annoying vampire taken aback on the other side of the room.

“Ta, luv. I’ll leave you to… this.” He’s tries to slide out of the seat but her hand snakes out and holds his wrist. He tries not to panic. He is literally being held in place by Fate.

“Shouldn’t you be laughing at us? Isn’t that what you do?” Atropos demands.

“So they tell me,” he says and tries to extract his sleeve from her grip.

“I hate you.”

“Well, um, that’s nice luv. I’m not _particularly_ fond of you either.”

God, and this is meant to be the pedantic one. He wonders what the other two are like after the apocalypse that wasn’t. Okay, now he regrets wondering about that too. Why in hell did he even come over here?

“But…” she points at him and he leans back. “At least when you do it, you’re meant to do it... Sort of.”

“Right you are, luv.” He scowls and pats her hand half-heartedly.

“I think my ex is screwing a _human_!” Atropos wails.

Oh fuck.

John wonders if he has enough on him to bodge his way through summoning the rest of the Moirai so her sisters can deal with her. Can pub pretzels substitute for virgin baked harvest bread? He’s pretty sure he knows enough Archaic Greek to blag his way through the complicated parts. But he’s also not sure just how connected the three are – he might just end up tripling his drunk goddess problem. Which shouldn’t even be his bloody problem at all. Bugger. When the hell did he turn into such a soppy wanker?

“I mean, it all started with that stupid antichrist in the 80s,” she continues - unaware of John’s internal diatribe. “He made screwing us over popular, you know? I don’t know why I even keep trying? Humans just don't know their place these days. Then these stupid Winchesters come along… and mess it up all over again.”

“That is more or less their gig, yeah.” Comforting a sobbing deity about the lack of apocalypses. Not exactly how he expected the evening to go. But nowhere near his strangest Tuesday night. Hell, it’s not even his strangest Tuesday night this year.

“It’s just not _right_ ,” she complains then takes another long swig from the bottle of vile blue liquid that was helping her get in this state in the first place. “And then… a human. A… a _human_! Gross.”

“Sorry?” John lost the thread of conversation there and for some reason he was prompting her before his brain caught up with him.

“Castiel,” she snaps. Because apparently that was meant to be obvious. “He’s sleeping with one of the Winchesters. I can tell… can’t tell which one though.” Her face scrunches up in a way that would be cute if she wasn’t, you know, Fate. “Maybe both of them?” She looks up at John like he has the answers. Still doesn’t let go of his sodding wrist though.

Now _there’s_ a thought. A thought that Winchester would fucking eviscerate him for ever having had. Still a bloke can’t help what his imagination does when he’s being held hostage by a drunk anthropomorphic personification, can he? Those lads do have damn good genetics. Winchester’s a kinky sod but _probably_ not that kinky.

John tries to get his hand back again. Fails, again. Wasn’t his whole daft heritage meant to be about getting one over on this bird? Well, he was doing a piss poor job of it so far. John is shaken from his thoughts by a female voice with a light Californian accent.

“Need some help again Hellblazer?”

John looks up sharply at the petite blond who has managed to sneak in behind him and lean across the back of his seat. She would look out of place here if it wasn't for the silver machete strapped to her thigh in a flashy custom holster. It has the words 'Mr Slashy' carved into the handle.

“Don’t think you can _slay_ fate, luv.”

“Hey,” Buffy says. Points at herself then at John. “Me, helpy equals you shutting up… ee.”

Bird hasn’t changed an ounce. He grins up at her and shrugs his agreement.

“Heya, Atropos?” Buffy says to the drunken demi-god with a deceptively sweet smile.

Atropos looks up from her moping to glare at Buffy.

“You! I h...” Fate says, starts off grumpy but fades to neutral after a moment’s thought. “Actually, you I don’t mind so much.”

“Yeah, well, I almost did what you told me to,” Buffy says with surprising softness. “Must make a nice change around here, right?”

Atropos thinks about it for a long moment, mind still clouded with blue ambrosia, then nods firmly and gives the Slayer a mournful look. John’s not sure if she still gets the capitalisation these days, now that she’s a slayer not The Slayer. But he decides to give it to her anyway seeing as she’s trying to help him out. See, he _can_ be respectful now and then.

Buffy sits down next to Fate and slowly pulls her hand away from John’s wrist covering the act with a gentle patting motion.

“There, there,” Buffy puts an arm around Fate's shoulders. And John would almost buy the compassion if he didn’t know better. “Why don’t you tell Auntie Buffy all about it?”

John slides out of the booth sharply as soon as he’s free.

“You _owe_ me Constantine,” the Slayer hisses as he makes his escape. “ _So_ much!” she adds with a pointed grimace when Atropos starts sobbing into her shoulder.

He groans, “Yeah, yeah. You’re a right doll.” He blows her a kiss which she blatantly ignores.

“John?”

He turns back to his 5’2” saviour and her armful of deity. “Yeah?” he says suspiciously.

“Go make sure Spike doesn’t get into any of that 120 proof fairy blood I _know_ Jim has behind the bar?”

“Right you are, luv.” He tries not to sound too sulky. He really doesn’t need to get on this bird’s bad side (again).

The bleach blond vamp appears to be engaged in some kind of intense debate with Dan Cassidy. And considering Dan is the bouncer that’s probably not a good thing.

This is probably going to come back and bite him in the arse. But if he started dwelling on that he wouldn’t really be John Constantine, would he? So he saunters over to find out what all the fuss is about. Wonders what Jim can come up with that's human friendly in the 120 proof range and how many it will take to help him forget this evening ever happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'stupid antichrist in the 80s' is Adam Young from Good Omens - yes I'm running with that.


	3. Death & Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tropziénne Tarte should look like this: <http://dessertfirstgirl.com/images/various/img_2021a.jpg>
> 
> Also, LTF and Wtinp, my beta readers, are amazing! Seriously, you guys have no idea how much better this thing is because of them. Thank you both so much!

Dean is grumpy. How dare he be grumpy? Especially considering the _sounds_ Sam overheard last night.

After his little stunt with the tie and making out with John freaking Constantine in front of a room full of people, he just refused to talk. Which, okay, that’s actually pretty normal for Dean. But still. Sam is not in the mood for any more morose silences. The drive back to the bunker last night had been bad enough.

Sam doubts Cas ever got that explanation Dean promised him. Which Sam now assumes has something to do with the whole kissing the fricking Hellblazer thing. Admittedly a lot of things do make more sense now. At first, Dean had tried to act like nothing had changed. But with the additional context, Sam had been able to figure out a lot more on his own. Especially once they got back to the bunker.

> “Give us a hand, Lazarus?” Constantine had said once they got back and started unpacking.
> 
> “That’s just stupid,” Dean had grumbled. But he still went off to help him with the bags anyway. “You’ve died at least as many times as I have.”
> 
> “Not if’n you hear Sam tell it, mate.”
> 
> Sam really hadn’t wanted to be dragged into it. Especially not now that he could see it as some creepy lovers’ spat. Ugh!
> 
> “That _so_ doesn’t count,” Dean had snapped back defensively. “I don’t even really remember that and it was all just a magic dimensional trick thing.”
> 
> “Oh _good_. In that case, all my time with Rosa don’t count and _you_ can stop bringing it up,” John had said back, jabbing his cigarette in Dean’s direction but ruining the effect by almost smiling.
> 
> “Oh no, that is not the same at all. There is certain _physical evidence_ of your time as Hell’s own John Smith…”
> 
> “Oh my god,” Sam had finally cut in. “Stop flirting. Just go… fuck it out or something.”
> 
> Dean had actually had the audacity to glare at him for that. John had just smirked then opened his mouth like he was about to say something horrifying. But luckily for Sam’s sanity, Chas Chandler interrupted.
> 
> “Don’t dare them like that,” he had said from the top of the stairs. “There is some stuff you _never_ want to see first-hand.”
> 
> “Shouldn’t’a walked in then,” John said smugly. And Dean freaking blushed like he was 20 but still laughed it off and… oh god. Sam had realized _then_ that Chandler knew. Chandler knew _all along._ And Sam didn’t really have any right to be angry but he was anyway.
> 
> “It _was_ my room,” Chandler said, more amused than angry. “At my wedding.”
> 
> “Eh,” John had smirked and shrugged it off. Dean had the good grace to at least look away and almost cover his amusement.
> 
> “Your wedding?” Sam had asked. Not that it did him any good because he didn’t get an actual answer out of anyone. He was confused (still is) and he was not enjoying it.
> 
> “It’s not a big deal, Sammy,” Dean had said. And he even sounded like maybe he meant it.
> 
> “Not a big…” Sam had started to say. But then Dean had looked at him. And Sam got it. Kinda. And he’s a good brother most of the time. So he let it drop.

But that was last night. And there is only so much reprieve that a sad look can buy a Winchester. Sam is pretty sure that Dean’s time off the hook is up, right about now. He is getting some answers if it kills him. Well, okay maybe not _kills_ him. Dean’s been quiet for a few days, but Sam has to remember that the Mark is still there. Even Sam won’t push it that far.

Dean practically throws himself into a chair at the end of the library table, glaring into his coffee mug without speaking.

Sam sighs and eyes his sibling cautiously. Grumpy is not a good start for prying information out of his brother. But if he let that deter him, then they’d have had a grand total of ten conversations in their whole lives.

“Where’s John?” Sam asks. Both as a good opening and because he’s just realized that he has no idea where John is.

“How the fuck would I know?” Dean says. Far more defensively that he has any right to be. It is even forceful enough that Chandler looks up from his paper to frown over its edge at Dean, who doesn’t notice. It makes Sam feel a bit better anyway to know he’s not alone in his dissatisfaction at that reaction.

This is going to be even worse than the Deastiel incident, isn’t it?

Sam just glares at Dean. Because, really? Is he going to actually make Sam point out that the _dude_ in question pretty obviously spent the night in Dean’s bed? Really? Is he? Sam’s just glad Cas and Zed are still outside, because it seems like Dean is determined to make this as uncomfortable as possible for everyone.

Dean must read all of that in Sam’s face because he does his ‘giving in’ sigh.

“I don’t know,” Dean says after another deep breath. “He went off with Death last night and he isn’t back yet, alright. And no, I know I didn’t dream it.”

Now Sam is even more incredulous. This is taking uncommunicative to new levels even for Dean.

“He what?” Chandler asks, actually lowering the paper this time.

“He’s fine,” Dean says, still snarky, frowns and adds, “well he isn’t dead… I don’t think.”

“How was that not what you lead with?” Sam asks. He needs a new word. Something that describes being so incredulous that incredulous isn’t doing the job anymore.

“Coffee,” Dean says simply. Like that is a justification and even Chandler seems to accept it. Goes back to reading his paper. Like this is all normal. And well, okay… maybe it _kind_ of is normal for all of them. But still, seriously? You should still have more of a reaction if Death himself comes to borrow your… boyfriend? Actually…

“So, what, you’re dating the Hellblazer now?” Sam asks because he’s curious and Dean isn’t offering up anymore information on the other thing right now. And apparently it’s _that_ which gets Dean’s full attention.

“What? No!” Dean responds immediately. Then, “I don’t… no.” Then finally a little more firmly, “No, it’s not…”

Fortunately for Dean’s mental gymnastics and unfortunately for Sam’s inner little brother, they’re interrupted before Dean can stutter out anything else. John saunters into the Library like he hasn’t just been missing. He’s got a cigarette between his lips and a pile of green boxes in his arms.

“’ullo chaps, what I miss?” John asks.

“Oh.” Chandler apparently recognizes the boxes, or something, because he perks up again. “She took you to Toulon?”

“That she did, mate.” John winks at Chandler and places the largest of the boxes down in front of him with a one armed flourish. “And you were not forgotten. Apparently I now whore me’self out for baked goods and cheese. One trumped up ploughman’s lunch for _monsieur_.” Self-mockery so strong it’s almost venomous.

Chandler smiles slightly and opens the box, which seems to contain enough cheese, chutney and deli meats to feed a small army. It actually does smell really good. It’s probably even good for you. Kind of.

Dean’s already got his eye on the other three boxes. Because heaven knows the pie is more important than a visit from one of the horsemen of the goddamn apocalypse!

Chandler has produced a spindly fork thing (possibly from the box itself) and is already adventuring into his ‘lunch’, apparently content to wait for John to get around to explaining after his hunter gatherer like display is over.

Sam is more bemused than insulted when two of the other boxes go down pretty much in front of Dean. Even Dean can’t eat two entire group sized servings in one sitting. Probably.

“And, as promised, Tropziénne Tarte for the tart.” John says with an evil smirk as he opens the box closest to Dean.

The contents look like what Sam is convinced Dean dreams about (well when he doesn’t have nightmares about Hell and slaughtering people anyway). It is sort of a cross between a [pie and a cake](http://dessertfirstgirl.com/images/various/img_2021a.jpg). With a spongy crust, two types of heavy custard like fillings, lots of cream and raspberries and a soft cake crumb-like topping. It’s also already cut into ten large servings, thankfully - so Dean isn’t going to try the hunting knife to cake knife trick like he did last time Sam got him a whole pie.

“Don’t go nostalgic on me Hellbastard,” Dean says but from the way his eyes are firmly on the cake/pie hybrid in the box and he looks like he’s about to drool, Sam’s pretty sure his heart isn’t in it.

“Whatever you say, ghost hunter.” Turns out John’s tone can get more mocking than it was on that monsieur. Interesting.

He leans right over Dean to stub his cigarette out in one of the many (suddenly overused) library ashtrays then flips open the other box. And now Sam _knows_ he can see the way Dean looks up at him when he does it. Dean’s got better at hiding it. Especially after Hell. But Dean’s eyes have always given him away – especially to Sam.

John pulls up a chair just a little bit closer to Dean than necessary. He has been doing it all week but Sam can _see_ this now too. And he actually sees the way his brother almost leans into it. Steals the odd glance... Oh shit… is his brother is in fucking love with the Hellblazer? No? How in hell did that happen? Did it happen in Hell? God damn it, like the Mark of Cain wasn't bad enough. Constantine is the only hunter whose lovers have worse luck than Sam's and Dean has to go freaking ga-ga for the guy. Great, just freaking great.

“That one,” John continues, unaware of Sam’s internal revelations. “Well, I want to take credit but Death picked it, tell the truth. This one is the Tarte Ciel et L’enfer - Heaven and Hell pie. Cheeky bird when she wants t’ be.”

Dean is already reaching for a slice of the pie/cake thing but now his eyes are on the more satirical offering. It is actually more pie like than the other but only just. It starts with a cookie base with alternating layers of caramel and berry, each between thin slivers of solid chocolate. It’s topped with figs, rock salt and a sculptural construction made of strung toffee and chocolate that might be a very artistic angel. It looks amazing even to Sam.

Chandler hands Sam a second spindly fork thing though so he shuffles closer to the (marginally) healthier option. Damn it, Sam’s turning into Dean and letting himself get distracted from the case by desserts. And cheese. Wow. It’s really good cheese.

Dean’s indecision, however, seems to have him frozen on the spot. Looking from one offering to the other but not eating either. And definitely not getting back to business.

John notices, sighs, puts down his own (much smaller) box still unopened, and drags over a slice of the chocolate and berry monstrosity and then one of the cake/pie thing. He places both on one of the odd little doily plates that were also in one of the boxes and puts it in front of Dean. He even hands Dean a fork – Sam’s not going to dwell on where the fork came from or why Constantine was carrying it. It’s actual silver and not one of the take-away ones that Sam and Chandler have.

“Both,” Constantine says with a lecherous sneer. “You’ve always been good at having both at once, luv.”

“Fuck off,” Dean answers with a glare, but he stabs the fork into the slice of cake/pie thing anyway.

God, Sam feels like an idiot. First he had been worried they were going to fight for days then he was worried they would start making out in front of him or something. But this is actually worse. Because they’re not actually acting any differently. How could Sam have missed this?

When Dean actually tastes the pie thing, even Sam thinks it’s obscene. He has to look away to hide his smile but not before he notices the way that John’s smug but disaffected reaction seems pretty damn affected.

Chandler seems to have become bored with waiting for an actual explanation and watching the other two passively flirt because he’s reading his paper again. He ignores the scene apart from odd pauses to take an occasional small cube of cheese from the platter in front of him. Sam’s got to wonder if he has the best idea.

“Where _were_ you?” Sam asks hoping for at least some information about what in hell is going on around here. He’s picked up a menu that was tucked in with the deli platter box, it’s handwritten and all in French.

“France,” John says. Which, thanks, Sam had gathered that much himself. He knows where Toulon is. Constantine seems to think that’s an answer though because he shrugs and starts fidgeting to get the smallest box open.

“What’s that?” Dean asks. It’s gruff but that’s a cover. He’s really enjoying this. And Sam wants to be annoyed, at both of them, he really does. But he just can’t. It’s all too much like a reprieve, however temporary, from whatever big and complicated darkness is about to fall on them this time. A little break from the Mark and destiny and god knows what else. So Sam smiles a bit instead.

Dean has already inhaled the first slice of cake/pie thing and is still licking the custard off his lip. But he’s spotted the gateau style cake in Constantine’s hands and he doesn’t look like he’s going to be deterred.

“Last slice of poncy French chocolate cake,” John answers, looking from Dean to the cake and back with narrowed eyes. He’s managed to obtain another silver fork, from the same mysterious place as Dean’s, and points it at Dean as he speaks. “Not your thing, Winchester. S’got _flowers_ in it.”

Dean laughs. Actually laughs, _out loud_ , at that. Wow. But then he’s leaning over to get a better look at the single slice of cake. It looks like it came from something just as dramatic as the Heaven and Hell one too. Sam can understand his enthusiasm. Sort of. But he’s mostly just amused that French pastries can have this kind of effect on his otherwise persistently intimidating sibling.

Dean gives Constantine a _look_ that even Sam hasn’t been the recipient of in years. It shouldn’t work. Dean is 37, not 17. And also Dean is not a puppy. Yet somehow it does work. John frowns but holds the box out to Dean who steals a large forkful.

It might be really really good cake. Alternatively, Dean just has a serious problem when it comes to desserts. Sam’s willing to put even money on it being a combination of both. Either way, Dean closes his eyes for a moment and outright moans. Now Sam has to try very hard not to link that sound with any other he’s ever accidentally (and when he was younger sometimes not so accidentally) overheard in the past.

Dean _looks_ at John some more. Sam’s kind of fascinated and kind of horrified by the whole thing.

“Really?” John asks.

And when Dean just nods without breaking eye contact, Sam has to wonder if either of them remembers they have an audience. John sighs and rolls his head back in a beleaguered fashion. But then he attacks the chocolate cake and hacks it roughly in half. Just lets Dean steal half the cake. Which, okay, Sam doesn’t know John that well but he can tell that Chandler is amused but also a bit surprised by the little display. Which means it’s unusual.

“Enjoy,” John says morosely. Then, points his fork directly at Chandler this time. “And _you_ , shut it.”

“I didn’t say anything?” Chandler points out.

John narrows his eyes at his friend in what seems to be some kind of threat, but Sam can tell Chandler doesn’t take at all seriously, before turning the rest of his focus back to the cake. Constantine is apparently using the very Dean-like tactic of ignoring what he doesn’t like to admit to.

Dean just looks like he won. Which, Sam supposes, he kind of did. While there’s a possibility that Dean’s secretly a bit in love with Constantine, Sam can say for sure that he’s head over freaking heels for that damn cake. And it’s stuff like that which reminds Sam how much he loves his stupid jerk of a brother too. Sam can totally deal with this. Kind of not but sort of dating the Hellblazer? Fine. Sam will deal. For Dean. He’s gotten over worse, right?

“Ooooh!”

Sam looks up quickly to see Zed, followed by Cas, coming back into the room.

“Who bought cake!” Zed says with almost as much endearing enthusiasm as Sam would expect from Dean.

“Death,” Constantine says, lounging back and taking another bite of his own mystically obtained cake.

Zed stops, hand half way to taking a slice of the chocolate and berry edifice.

“Death?” she says. Like she’s not sure she believes him. Or maybe she just doesn’t believe how blasé they’re all being about this. Which, that’s justified. Actually, either reaction is probably justified. Maybe Sam needs some normal friends? Nah, bad idea, they’ll just end up dead and he’ll feel bad.

“Yeah,” John carries on. “And she even _paid_ for it! You know, I think Death pays for things more often than I do?”

“Everyone pays for things more often than you do,” Chandler adds from behind his paper. “Toddlers pay for things more often than you do.” So he is sort of paying attention then. At least enough attention to help derail the conversation once it finally gets back near the right track. Okay, great. Thanks, Chandler.

“Yeah, but if you were nigh omnipotent and knew the eventual demise of every living thing,” John says, following the tangent down the rabbit hole. “Wouldn’t you scam off with the odd cake? Not like they can actually remember it if Death don’t want ‘em to... What about you Winchester, you take advantage of the ol’ memory and reality influence’n when you were doing The Job for a day?”

Sam wonders suddenly how often these two even talk. Like, how did John even _know_ about that?

“No,” Dean says, grumpy again. Is that _another_ slice of cake/pie hybrid? “I was kinda busy. With the whole shovin’ people up the stairway to heaven, thing.”

“Eh,” John says. He steals a bit of Dean’s cake/pie hybrid with a sly little smile that Sam would rather he had missed. But there you have it. He’s obviously not fazed by Dean’s mood swings in the least. Dean being Dean, moves the pie thing out of reach. Like he hadn’t done the exact same thing not ten minutes ago. Really, Dean? As often happens though Sam finds himself more amused than annoyed with his brother’s hypocritical attitude.

“Death?” Zed asks again, voice tremulous but firm. She’s rattled but knows how to get an answer out of these guys when she has to. Which is really impressive in itself.

“Yeah, she’s a nice enough bird.” John thinks for a second then adds, “Once you get over the whole, you know, Death thing.”

“She?” Sam asks. He’s been curious about that for the last half hour and he would really like a bit more information about pretty much anything at this point. But he also doesn’t want to offend or scare off Zed. She might be able to hold her own but she’s still new to this world.

“He thinks Death’s a chick,” Dean answers derisively.

“Oh piss off. Your heteronormative notions of gender aren’t good for you, Winchester.” Then he leans right up into Dean’s personal space in a way that Sam would have assumed was aggressive yesterday. And it is kind of aggressive just a different kind of aggression. “Come on, out of the cupboard, all you _boys_ and girls,” John half sings.

And the look Dean gives him is so unimpressed it borders on fatal. But Chandler saves them all.

“Where did you even learn the word heteronormative?” Chandler asks John. Still buried in that damn paper – he must be almost finished it by now? Maybe it’s a defense mechanism. Maybe Sam should take up reading the sports section when he tries to talk to Dean? If you can’t see them being smug and defensively evasive you don’t want to shake the information out of them as much?

“Annie.” John shrugs happily enough. “Same place I learnt any word with more’n three syllables.”

“Hang on,” Zed says. Dragging everyone back on target. Sam likes this girl. “ _Death_ bought you pastries? As in scythe and… and… Death?” She says it slow. Like she’s asking a small child instead of a forty something year old man. Good tactic.

“Well...” John prevaricates. “Technically Death bought Winchester pastries, ‘cause she likes him. Dunno _why…_ Ow!” Sam is pretty sure that Dean just kicked the Hellblazer under the table like a sullen teenager. Yeah, that is kind of adorable.

Constantine reaches for Dean’s coffee at that point and Dean pulls back and glares at him. And looking for it, Sam can see it. He glares at John in a similar way to the one he uses on Sam, although not the exact same, thank god.

“Et ego non tuum canis” Dean snaps, with more fluidity than he normally allows himself. He thinks if Sam knows Dean is good at Latin, he might have to do more research. Like Sam would submit either of them to _that_.

“Tu tamen frui mendicans,” John says without missing a beat. 'But you enjoy begging?' Really? Does Sam really need to know these things? Wasn’t Hell bad enough?

“Ita facio, ut solum pro vobis,” Dean says. The odd thing about that is, Dean _is_ frowning and sounds vaguely derisive when he says it. If you didn’t _know_ he pretty much just said ‘I do that but only for you,’ you would think he was telling the dude to go fuck himself, not talking like one of the ‘chick-flicks’ he claims to hate. Then Dean looks at the ceiling for a moment and starts speaking again, “Manus tuae solus faciam…”

“Dean,” Sam interrupts as quickly as he can. “It’s not discrete when _everyone_ in the freaking room speaks Latin.” Because that was something to do with ‘your hands alone’ and Sam does not need to hear any more than that, thank you very much.

“I don’t,” Chandler says, eyes still in his stupid paper. He sounds smug. Which Sam does not appreciate. Not when he now has _ideas_ in his head. Seeing the tail end of Dean’s experiments with his ‘Doublemint Twins’ had been bad enough.

“Me either,” Zed says, also amused. Traitor that she is. And Sam was just starting to really appreciate her assistance too.

Sam looks at Cas for some kind of support. But Cas just gives him an impassive angel head tilt. Which Sam _knows_ is fake these days. It means he doesn’t want to respond or he’s secretly laughing at them all. As much as Sam doesn’t want to admit it, he suspects this instance is the latter reason. So Sam allows himself a small, tight lipped half frown in return. And, yep, that’s laughter in the angel’s eyes.

Dean, at least, sort of looks like he’s been caught out. But for Dean, that just means bluffing and acting like he didn’t do anything wrong in the first place. So it is a very small victory in the war for Sam’s mental stability. John just looks pleased with himself. But Sam’s not sure you can expect anything else from the Hellblazer.

“Will the cake kill me?” Zed asks. And, _no_ Zed – no. That is not the pertinent objective here. Damn it. They were getting so close to the point, too. Sam sighs.

“Nah,” John answers again. “She isn’t big with the whole ‘interventionist’ thing… Unless it comes to the younger Winchesters, that is.” John says it with more scorn than Sam would have expected and shakes his head like that’ll help this confusing realization make more sense. “S’good cake, though. Try the tart thing. An’ make Thursday have some too. It’s got a angel on it.”

Constantine says angel the same way Dean does, Sam notices. Like it's an insult.

“I don’t need to eat,” Cas says. He’s hardly moved from the doorway this whole time. Shit. Sam should really make the time to sit down and talk to the guy. He must be even more confused by this whole Dean and John thing than Sam is.

“No one _needs_ to eat cake, Cas,” Dean says. So, Dean’s not ignoring Castiel completely then. Thank god (or someone) for small mercies.

“It doesn’t taste the same to an angel as it does to a human,” Cas explains.

“Bollocks,” John interjects with a slightly evil look. “C’mere, angel.”

And Cas, who must be more trusting than Sam is, goes over to stand between the two chairs but really he’s next to Dean. Which Sam supposes counts as ‘c’mere’ considering how close they’re sitting anyway. It’s a noticeable gesture nonetheless. Cas even does the soul reading squinty thing. John doesn’t seem impressed though.

John just pats his pockets (how many pockets does that trenchcoat _have_ ) and pulls out a small jar of red sand. He then takes a tiny amount of the sand stuff and smudges it on his lower lip.

“John,” Chandler says warningly.

“S’just a little magic Chas,” John says. “Practically a parlour trick.” His tone suggests there’s a little more to it than that, but Chandler gives in.

Then Constantine reaches up, grabs the angel by the shoulders and… oh okay. More gay kissing. Sam feels like he’s back at college, maybe even that one _really odd_ frat party. What the actual hell!

Dean looks like he’s going to choke on his own tongue. Sam finds it hard to feel sorry for him for once. With Meg, he’d spared a thought for his brother’s feelings. Same with finding out about the April thing. But this one is a situation Dean brought down on himself. And Sam is not going to spare time for pity. Nope. No pity for Dean Winchester. Not even when his not-a-boyfriend is kissing his ‘not my’ angel. Nope. Not even when Sam can see his white knuckle grip on the arm of the chair. No pity. At all. Sam refuses to feel it. Not even if that kiss _is_ kind of dragging on.

Sam does glance over at Zed though. He’s seen the way she looks at Castiel. Like he’s proof of God. Which, okay, Sam used to look at him like that too actually. He sort of is proof of God really. However, Sam suspects there might have been something more in those intrigued and slightly desperate looks. But Sam’s also been around angels a lot more than Zed has. He’s come to see the ‘humanity’ in them. For some reason, the fact that Zed looks more Sam-level confused than Dean-level jealous is really reassuring to Sam. He should probably be a good Winchester and suppress that reaction.

“Try it now,” John says pushing Cas back a bit and lounging back into his chair. “You’ve got maybe five minutes ‘till it’ll wear off.”

Cas looks stunned. Sam can’t blame him. Sam feels a bit stunned too. Though that might be a continuation - he may have never become un-stunned from last night.

Sam would call John’s expression coy on anyone less scruffy. On John, it comes off smug and a little self-righteous. Constantine hands Cas a slice of the Heaven and Hell tart but then he winks at Dean. While Sam may be refusing to feel sorry for Dean, he does take offense at the wink thing. Sam is still Dean’s brother after all, he has the right to be hypocritically annoyed at him and offended for him at the same time.

Okay. That is _enough_. Sam is sick of toeing around the whole freaking point.

“Enough about the damn cakes, what the _hell_ did Death actually want with you?” Sam demands. He even stands up and leans over the table. And everyone, even Zed, looks at him like he’s the crazy one. So okay, the standing up thing might have been a bit much but even so. It’s this situation that is crazy _not_ him.

John glances up at Cas, of all people, with something that looks oddly like concern. Then he stares Sam right in the eye, takes a deep breath and finally speaks: “Simple, _mate_. Atropos ran off with _your_ brother and Death wants _me_ to get ‘em both back.”

“I’m right here!” Dean points out. “Also, she’s not my type.”

“Everyone’s your type,” John says with another of those almost smiles, like he can’t help himself. Then he turns more serious again. “I didn’t mean Dean. I _meant_ Adam Milligan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references events from throughout the series but particularly [Even As I Wander](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3574483/chapters/7876643)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Hunters & Hellblazers will be going on a one month hiatus during April 2015 (I need to finish my [SPN Femslash Minibang](http://spnfemminibang.livejournal.com/) fic). There will be one more update to [Even As I Wander](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3574483) in a week or so but then no more until early May-ish. 
> 
> If you want to know exactly when I get back though, I seriously suggest you **subscribe** to the **[series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/187280)** so you'll get an email when I update.


	4. Caged Fate

“This is a very bad idea,” Atropos informs their captors blithely. “My sisters will come for us, they are more powerful than you or I can imagine.”

“No, they won’t come for you,” says the masked man who seems to be the leader. He has a thick accent on his heavy handed Spanish. It is not his first language, and if he knows enough to have trapped both Adam and Atrapos then he knows language is no barrier to them. He must be speaking in Spanish for a reason. For show. So that the men around them understand his words. He isn’t speaking for the sake of his captives. He is speaking to his troops. Showing off. Adam wonders briefly if they can use that somehow.

“The other Fates will not come for you, maiden child,” the leader continues. “Because this was always meant to be. It is in thine father’s blessed book. On the second to last page. The Darkness rises. It will be free and the world will burn to black. We do not need Lucifer to bring about the End of Days, littlest Fate.”

Adam kind of wants to deck the guy just for being pompous. Luckily for the masked man and his human-flesh wearing compatriots Adam isn’t going to be punching or reaping anyone anytime soon. The enchanted cold iron shackles and the reapers’ trap carved into the floor both see to that.

The fine red cord tied around Atrapos’ wrist looks far less impressive but actually took far more skill to forge. Not to mention the life’s blood of ten blessed virgins. Adam doesn’t even know where you would get ten blessed virgins these days. He hopes it isn’t a time travel thing. He may only have ever been nominally a Winchester but he is dating Fate herself and he knows enough to know that time travel and Winchesters just don’t mix well.

Whatever these morons are up to it is big, and bad, and Fate bindingly wrong.

Adam can’t help jumping forward, almost to the very edge of the reapers’ trap, when one of the flesh garbed minions shoves Atropos, hard, toward a large gilded cage. Adam hates the impotent rage brewing in his blood.

She stumbles but, like the divine creature she is, she regains her composure quickly. Her back is a straight line of fury. She near vibrates with suppressed aggression. She is the most beautiful and terrifying thing Adam has ever seen and if they weren’t wearing coats made of man-flesh and holding his girlfriend captive he might even feel sorry for the idiots that have captured them.

“What about me?” Adam points out. If Atropos thought there was enough fear in this crowd for these kind of threats then Adam isn’t above trying too. “My employer is not going to be impressed.”

“Your ‘employer’ has no business in this,” The leader says, turning his eerie, glowing green gaze on Adam. “The Brujería are men. We are powerful men. But men nonetheless. We belong to the Darkness not to Death. Your employer knows this. Death will not intercede on your behalf. Because Death may be many things but Death always plays by the rules. We do not. None of the Endless can help you here.”

Adam only just stops himself from making an ungentlemanly snorting sounds at that. This dude has not met the Death who Adam knows, that’s for sure. If Death always played by the rules then Adam should be rotting in a Cage at the heart of Hell. Death is the rules, there’s a difference.

Adam can tell that some of the crowd aren’t as convinced as their masked leader. Their immunity to Death must be unproven.

“We’ll see. I have brothers too,” Adam points out. Now this one is a stretch and pretty close to a lie. Dean and Sam think he really is rotting in Hell and if they haven’t tried to save their human baby-bro from Luci and Michael he doubts they’ll come after a reaper trapped by human sorcerers in the middle of fuck-knows-where, Patagonia. But Adam knows that monsters and witches are scared of his siblings. Death sends him to reap their kills often enough - he’s well aware of their reputation and how they earned it. “The Winchesters? Ever heard of them? They’ve already stopped the apocalypse once, what makes you think they can’t do it again?”

The masked leader laughs at that. Full bodied and rough. He smokes, even with Adam’s reaper powers suppressed by the trap he can feel the damage and almost smell the cancer that already stalks the masked man.

“The Winchesters are not to be feared in this. They already dance to our tune, don’t you worry.”

“Oh bother,” Atropos doesn’t seem to like whatever realisation just hit her. The masked man turns to her and if Adam had to guess he would say the guy is grinning.

“Indeed little Fate. Destiny has a way of reasserting itself, doesn't He? The Winchesters have always been fated to end the world. The Darkness has been waiting for all of time. It will not wait any longer because some children tried to stop something as insignificant as God’s Plan. We do not fear any of your erstwhile allies. We control them. All of them." The man actually pauses to goddamn gloat, runs a gnarled finger along the bindings on Atropos' wrists. She doesn't shiver but Adam does for her. This dude is a white cat and some maniacal laughter away from being freaking Bond villain. He even claps his hands and makes an imperious gesture at his lackeys. "Now, enough of this nonsense - we have work to do.” 

The men in the human skin clothes snap to attention and start to set up a ritual around Atropos’ cage. One of them blindfolds her and the cords on her wrist stop her from fighting even that invasion of her dignity.

Adam is seemingly forgotten for this part. He wants to take advantage of being ignored but has nothing to fight with. His sickle has been taken and he is trapped in his former mortal form, weak and near useless.

He does the only thing he can think of, something he hasn’t done since he was alive. Adam Milligan prays.


	5. Sam, or something...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short Sam's PoV chapter after the Adam reveal. John and Sam finally attempt to talk about their shit. It works. Sort of. Or something...

Sam didn’t mean to run away. Not exactly. He just needed some space. Or something.

He’s not even sure why he’s so angry. He just feels like everything has been spinning further and further out of control ever since their confrontation with Gabriel. Hell, even before that. No one has given him a minute to process anything and then more shit keeps piling up on top. Not like that’s new. So he left them in the library and came out here. He just needs to _think_ for a minute.

Even away from them all it’s still too much though. Gabriel’s alive, and Sam’s been feeling guilty for literally years over nothing. Dean’s _fucking_ the Hellblazer but still can’t get his foot out of his ass long enough to resolve some of his shit with Cas. Worse, and god he knows it’s hypocritical, but Dean had a whole life without him while Sam was at Stanford. Four freaking years of major shit that it turns out Sam never really knew about. The Keeper of the goddamn Green! Not only is he real, but Dean met him and never bothered to mention it. Then there was the whole vessel fiasco - not the first apocalypse, not the first ‘boy king’ and not the first vessel, not the first monster. God.

And now this. Adam.

Sam leans against the low half wall that circles the flat grassy roof of the bunker. He can see for miles from up here. It’s good, it’s defensible his father’s voice tells him. It is late enough in the morning that the mist is burning off and floats in tatters around only the deepest parts of the pine woods that surround them and the disused access road that leads here. It’s still cold enough that Sam’s breath creates new mists before him though. The chill sinks in and helps wake him up. Helps remind him he’s alive. Mostly.

Sometimes wondering what he is now is worse than knowing what he was before. Being brought back bit by bit from the pit. Which parts got made and remade? What else got left behind that first time, with his soul. Is it even his soul inside him now? Given new life by Death himself. Does it even count?

Sam thumps his fist against the ledge in front of him. The shock of pain eases his frustration but it’s momentary. This is the problem with having John Constantine around. It brings all this other shit bubbling back to the surface. He holds up a bloodstained mirror to their lives and then reflects shared light back into the darkest corners.

Sam doesn’t look up when he hears the door. He is surprised when he hears the tread on the gravel though. Not Dean, shoes too soft and too light to be Chas. Can’t be Zed either, she’s trapped in the high heeled boots Gabriel decided to conjure for her. So that leaves Cas or-

Sam hears the zippo lighter snap open but the smell isn’t quite right. It’s not normal fire.

“Constantine,” Sam says, calls him by his last name the way Dean does. He isn’t ready for this. Whatever this is going to be. But when did Sam Winchester ever get a choice in anything. “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t ask how John knew he was up here. He has an irrational stab of jealousy at the idea of Dean sending anyone other than Sam himself or maybe Cas to clean up his messes. Sometimes Sam’s instincts betray him worse than his brother ever could. Good analogy really, both instinct and sibling bedded down so deep inside him that they’re part of him. Inescapable.

“Needed a fag,” John says, nonchalant and false.

“We let you smoke inside, John,” Sam points out. Holds on to a laugh that wants to be free but he doesn’t have the stomach for. He remembers just days ago trying to convince Dean to give Constantine some slack - let him smoke inside, what’s the harm of it. It turned into a fight. Because everything turn into a fight these days. He still doesn’t understand why Dean overreacted to Constantine going to Hell for him. Fuck Sam’s life, seriously. How are these things he has to think? He shakes his head, refusing his own melancholy.

Constantine has reached him by now. Leans on the half-wall next to him.

“True,” John acknowledges that his excuse for being there is more transparent than most ghosts. “View’s alright, though.”

Sam looks at him then, and frowns. Constantine isn’t looking at him at all though, he really is looking out across the misty Kansas morning. The threat of John’s constant borderline flirtatiousness is less harmless now and far more uncomfortable for Sam. He wouldn’t be the first of Dean’s ‘liaisons’ who tried to collect the whole set, after all. But that’s not right and it isn’t fair. Sam’s angry, but he isn’t stupid. He’s not even angry at John. He’s not really angry at anyone. Except maybe himself. No, John had the chance years ago when Sam was bored and soulless. And he’d turned him down so quickly, Sam had just assumed it was another one of those situations where he had misread what was available, those had happened so often that year. Maybe it wasn’t that after all, maybe John had (quite rightly) assumed Dean would freaking kill him if he’d found out. Even Sam isn’t sure this long dead memory matters now. Maybe a small, bitter part of him wants to know he could take this away if he really wanted to. If he can’t have Dean maybe- he stops that thought dead. Shoots that part of himself through the heart with a silver bullet, kills it just like any other werewolf.

“Lucifer, huh?” Sam breaks the silence John had granted them.

“Yep.” John says it casual but he frowns, and his grip on the wall tightens. He turns his attention away from the scene before them and focuses on the burning end of his cigarette. Draws inward in a way which Sam recognises, from both himself and Dean. John’s head turns momentarily to the side, like he’s listening to something, inside or out though, Sam isn’t sure. Sam is reminded of his own hallucinations. Constantine hasn’t been in the Cage but he’s been in the pit more than once. Who knows. Sometimes Sam still thinks all that was real. Thinks the wall breaking didn’t just drive him mad, that it opened up a crack inside him. Let something back in. Let Luci back in.

“That’s it?” Sam says. Ignores his other considerations for now.

John shrugs and looks back for the first time since his arrival. “What do you want to know, mate?”

Sam isn’t sure. Does he want to know any of it? Probably. He probably needs to. Or should want to. Or something.

“Do you know how to get rid of the Mark of Cain?” Sam asks. He just got offered a carte blanche, and he’s going to use it. He even manages to make the Hellblazer look taken aback. He wasn’t expecting this line of questioning aparently.

“No.” John shakes his head and looks away as he speaks.

Constantine inhales the last of his cigarette, stubs it out on the wall in front of them then flicks it over. Lets it float on the cool nearly spring air. Sam tries not to hope it’ll hit the Impala just to see Dean’s reaction. He has to stop being petty about this. If Cas can handle it, then Sam sure as hell can too.

“I’m trying,” John says, to his cigarette packet instead of Sam. He offers a cigarette to Sam in unspoken camaraderie but Sam shakes his head. John lights a new one before finally looking Sam in the eye again. “If I could get that thing off your brother’s arm - don’t you think I would have by now?”

Sam doesn’t know what to say to that. It seems too honest. And his eyes say something else too, something Sam isn’t quite ready to consider too deeply. Answers questions Sam knows he wants to ask but wouldn’t know how. So Sam just nods, accepts the answer for what it is. It’s not like he ever thought it could be _that_ easy.

“What about-” Sam swallows and prepares himself for the words. “What about the demon blood?”

“Twice.” John gives him a shrewd look then rolls up his left sleeve, up past his elbow. He shows Sam a scar, a livid red and purple puncture wound in the crook of his arm. Long since healed over, embedded into the flesh but never healed in the ways that matter. A web of red marks spiral out from it, marring the pale skin. Like the world’s worst track marks. An indelible reminder.

Sam stops short at the sight. He can imagine what that must have been like. He’d considered it. Once. At the height of his addiction. Just before Lucifer. Considered how it would hit faster, deeper. How blood would bind to blood. How the heat of it would flow through him, the charged power instant and pure. How his wounds would heal and his sight would turn black at the edges. How good that would feel. That’s not the sort of taint you ever sweat out. Not that _that_ thought had stopped Sam at the time. No, what had stopped him was the taste. By then drinking it was part of the ritual, hot and burning on his tongue, slick and thick down the throat. He closes his eyes on the memory. Tries to push it back and back down. To this day thinking about that sickly sweet, copper, salt and sulfur taste is a little too much. A little too close to temptation.

When Sam opens his eyes again, John has rolled his sleeve back into place and turned back towards the view, gives Sam space of a symbolic kind. He’s blowing smoke rings. Like he doesn’t know what just went through Sam’s mind but his forced ambivalence gives it away.

“How…” Sam’s not even sure where he’s going with that one. “Do you…”

“It’s different.” John must understand what he was trying for even if Sam doesn’t because he answers with cold confidence. “The transfusion’s permanent. It doesn’t get better, or worse, or stronger, or weaker. It just _is_. All the bleeding time.”

“Can you… can you still-” Sam resorts to a Dean-like gesture when words fail him. Something that’s meant to mean ‘blow up demons with your mind’ and imply ‘other freaky psychic crap’ as well. It must work because Constantine answers him.

“Yeah, some of it.” John glances at Sam again. “All of it, maybe more. There’s always a price, though. That kinda magic, it feeds on _you_. On your soul, or your blood, or your life force. It’s gotta take something. Entropy an’ all that bollocks. When Hell flows through you it always leaves something behind. It’s risky, even by my standards.”

“I thought you said I was… clean?” Sam pretends his voice doesn’t almost break on that last word.

“You are, more or less.” John slaps him on the shoulder, hard and real. “It wears off, it bleeds out and burns off. It was always borrowed for you. You’ll get over it. Never know, one day you might even get over him.”

Sam doesn’t have an answer for that. He knows John means Lucifer. He knows that John is telling him something, admitting something unspoken between them. So Sam just nods again. He should ask other things. He should push his luck until it breaks. Because John Constantine doesn’t do this, doesn’t open up like this for just anyone and he may never get the chance again. But at the same time he knows this is enough. Knows for the first time in years that he isn’t alone in this. Somehow not being the only one makes him less of a freak. Which is weird and makes no sense. Something unbuckles in Sam’s chest and he breathes deep and freer than he has in years. He didn’t know he needed to hear that.

“C’mon,” John says. “All this sappy bollocks gives me a right headache. I think I need a drink.”

“It’s not even noon.” Sam says, falling back into the same tone he uses on Dean in these situations. And John must hear that too because he grins and laughs.

“When has that ever stopped blokes like us, eh old son? Besides, gotta get a wriggle on, we’ve both got Winchesters to save. Right mate?”

The reminder hits home and Sam tilts his head towards the bunker doors. Offers sanctuary and agreement, if not his approval. Not yet, anyway.

 


	6. Almost

Zed isn’t sure what to make of the two angels she has meet in the last few months. Manny, with his enigmatic comments, warm distance and tendency to be invisible is probably more what she expected. Castiel isn’t really like that even though she suspects she can see traces of it now and then. He’s apparently possessing some dead guy (sort of, it’s complicated) which binds him to the earthly plane in a way that Manny isn’t. You can tell that’s true, too. He seems more present, more interested, and more focused on what’s going on around them. He seems more interested in people for their own sake. Which is, comforting, she supposes. His relationship to Heaven seems less clear cut too. And that shouldn’t be as comforting as it is. She thinks she likes him best, if that’s even allowed.

Manny is amazing and awe inspiring. Any angel is amazing. It’s kind of what they do. Even Imogen the demonic angel, with her black wings and sickly yellow eyes had been amazing. But Castiel (please, call me Cas) is less, terrifying, maybe? She almost forgets what he is when he’s sitting next to her and investigating a piece of cake, like he is now.

In addition to cake, they’re both watching Dean Winchester and John argue. Zed can’t really imagine Manny doing that. Of if he did he wouldn’t be paying attention in the same way. He wouldn’t even really understand what was going on. It’s all too human. That human-ness is kind of good. It helps create a distraction from the spiritually bizarre and confusing by being a mundane kind of bizarre and amusing instead. It’s _all_ pretty hilarious when you take a step back from it, really.

Zed can’t decide what she thinks about the Winchesters, either. She’s read enough of the Supernatural books to have expected something, and to know that whatever that was they’re very much _not_ it. They’re both more _real_ somehow, more human than she imagined yet still so much larger than life than she was prepared for. Physically as well as mentally - they take up a lot of space. They’re definitely more intimidating than she thought they would be, too. Her urge to hug Sam every time something bad happened in the books is now tempered by the fact both men are built of solid muscle and heavy duty plaid, smell vaguely of blood and motor oil at all times, and exude some kind of constant battle ready menace. Also, the fact that you can tell they’re armed to the teeth - even in their natural habitat. If you hugged one of them without warning you’d probably end up stabbing yourself on a concealed bowie knife or something. They’re predators in a way she didn’t expect - so close to the things in the dark that she’s not sure if they’re really any different at this point. Dean, in particular scares her. There’s something dark under his skin, not demonic but close enough. And something hostile in his manner even without that which puts her off a little. Not that any of this seems to bother John Constantine. That’s not a surprise though. He probably loves it.

“You’re not bloody coming!” John shouts, for at least the second time. Not in the least afraid to get right up in Dean’s personal space despite both of them bristling with (probably misplaced) anger.

“What do you mean I’m not _‘bloody’_ coming,” Dean shouts back and shakes his packed bag for emphasis then drops it on the table so he can get even further into John’s face. The bag jangles with more metal than cloth. See, armed to the teeth. “Me and Sam have tangled with Fate before and I’m not freaking scared of her.”

“You and that fucking Mark are staying the hell out of this, Winchester. You ever heard of tempting Fate? Well that’s what you bleeding live for, innit? I’m not fucking risking it. Go find a ghost to burn, or another vampire to shag, or... something, I don’t sodding care. Just stay the fuck away from _this_.”

Zed kicks her feet under her chair and takes another bite of cake. At least there’s cake. Castiel just watches the battle of wills with a gentle concern that’s kind of soothing, even from where Zed sits.

Sam and Chas are both hovering like a pair of anxious, 6’4” tall mother ducks too. Neither guy quite sure when or _if_ to break up the brewing fight.

Chas is more subtle about it. He’s standing by the main door with his own bag over one shoulder. Looks like he’s just waiting for John to finish up and follow, with or without a hunter or two in tow. Zed is getting good at watching the fight or flight signs now, though. His posture is relaxed, but his face is slightly tense. She’s glad Chas is ready to exert a calming influence if needed. Sam’s more obvious about it, and more physically prepared. He thinks it’s more likely to turn physical and he’s ready to jump in, standing at the foot of the stairs where John left him upon discovering Dean packing to join them on their Fate hunting trip. Sam has his weight forward but he’s still unsure. Doesn’t really know what to make of John and Dean and the whole tongue tangling thing. Probably rightly, unsure if this is a fight or foreplay. Yuck. Zed’s still amused by that whole thing really, but she feels appropriately bad about how funny she find it, so that’s probably okay.

“This is _my_ freaking brother we’re talking about,” Dean growls across the scant inch that separates them.

“That didn’t seem to matter a few hours ago when you thought he was safely being tortured for all frigging eternity!” John shouts back.

“John,” Chas warns, deep and calm. She even thinks it’s about to work- John breaks eye contact, takes a step back and a breath. Then-

Then all she’s think about is the horrible, ear splitting, _shrieking_ in her head. It tears through her, a tidal wave of screaming static and spiritual pain. Like a vision but worse, like it’s coming from a different place, all bright fear and overwhelming cold.

Zed slumps forward hands over her ears, trying to block out the sickening wail. Just when she thinks she might throw up from the pain, Castiel grabs her shoulder and all sound fades to nothing, like her whole head is wrapped in cotton wool. She looks up into the worried eyes of an angel and smiles weakly through the residual buzzing.

“You could hear that?” Castiel’s voice cuts through the fog, distant but just audible despite being mere inches from her face.

There are other voices but they’re vague and she can’t make them out. She ignores that and nods an answer to the question she can hear instead.

“What was it?” she asks. It felt like fear and awe and bleeding out. Now it’s gone part of her almost misses it, it was so overwhelming it was almost merciful.

“Manny,” Castiel says. “That was Manny’s voice. He was speaking to me though, it shouldn’t have affected you. I’m sorry.”

Zed smiles weakly into his kind blue eyes. They might not be gold, like Manny’s but she can still see Heaven in them. That shouldn’t ground her but it does. That flash of unreality makes her remember the stakes. It gives her a kind of steel she’s always had but sometimes had trouble finding, she sits back up.

“I’m fine,” she says, and she means it too. For now.

Cas nods back firmly, like he understands even if she doesn’t.

“What did _he_ want?” That’s John’s voice, snarky and jealous. They’ve all given up on the whole who’s going where argument thing to cluster around Zed instead. How nice.

“He knows where Cain is,” Castiel says, standing and brushing off imaginary dust as he does so. “I’m going to talk to him. Cain may be our best chance for removing the Mark from Dean.”

“I thought your wings were broken?” Dean snaps, residual anger present in his voice.

“They are,” Cas says patiently. “Manny is waiting outside the bunker now. I won’t be long.”

“Why didn’t he just flutter on in like every other winged bastard?” Dean asks, still grumpy. He and John really are a matched set of bitter, whiskey pickled, lumps of well meaning but selfish manpain. It would be adorable if her ears weren’t still ringing.

“Because the bunker is warded, Dean. Nothing supernatural can enter here without express permission,” Castiel explains, only the slightest smile giving away his humor. “An unvesseled angel is fairly supernatural, wouldn’t you say?”

Zed smiles at that too, despite the remnants of ringing pain in her skull. Softly snarky is not something she has ever expected from an angel of the Lord. God, how did her life actually managed to get weirder? Maybe she needs a nap?

* * *

In the end John wins- mostly, and he isn’t sure if he wanted to at all. So, that’s the same old pattern then. Nothing new under stars nor sea an' all that.

Dean isn’t happy about it, but he gives in eventually and agrees to stay away from the whole Fate rubbish and watch his own back instead. John pulls all the right strings, makes him feel like he’ll fuck it all up if he tries to help, plays on the bloke’s guilt and self loathing just enough to keep him put. John feels a kickback of the self same from doing it, of course. Don’t matter though, it works and that’s the bleeding point, innit?

The angels argue in Enochian for a bit but seem to come to some agreement which means Castiel is leaving too. John isn’t sure what he thinks about that, either. He doesn’t trust angels on principle. But Winchester is damn attached to this one and seems like good bloody reasons in most cases. Even if he doesn’t want to worry, the idea of leaving Dean alone with his thoughts, his abandonment issues, and the Mark of sodding Cain doesn’t sit easy with him. John’s a manipulative little crook, and that’s probably why he pulls Dean aside before they leave. Just to make sure. Just to reassure the bloke. Maybe leave his own little mark on the lad’s soul. That’s all there is to it. A precaution. A demonic Dean Winchester hadn't actually been too bad on the world, but an unhappy and self-destructively human one could do a lot more damage.

Dean looks confused when John reaches out and kisses him instead of shaking some sense into him, or whatever else it was he expected when John dragged him around a hidden corner. The confusion from Winchester ought to be a surprise, but that’s the reaction most people who know John for any length of time usually have to his whole existence so John rolls with it and pushes on through. Winchester catches up pretty damn quick though, hellfire bless him.

Once he gets it, Winchester kisses back with a gut wrenching kind of hunger. Like he’s been starved for it. Like he’s starved for affection, like no one touches him except to hurt him. And maybe that’s true these days. Or maybe it’s the other way ‘round, maybe he hasn’t used his body for anything but violence in too long. Maybe the Mark drives out the other urges, subsumes them with blood lust and pain. Maybe Winchester isn’t just desperate to be loved anymore. Maybe he’s desperate to touch with a kind hand, desperate to love something, or anything. Must be real bloody desperate if he’s directing all this wanting need at John Constantine, of all people.

Dean’s fingers dig into John’s hips, pulling him in close and holding on for dear life. Gripping the moment so hard his knuckles go white and John’ll have bruises to show for it for days. John keeps one hand, like a grounding plate, on the back of Dean’s neck but lets the other wander. Soft, almost too soft, down his arm until it hovers, not quite on the Mark but close enough. John sinks his fingers into the skin of Dean’s arm, digs back with a little of that ever repressed heat. He bites Dean’s lip, half distraction half delectation. And he _pulls_ on the threads of black that wind through Dean’s soul at the same time. Drains off more of the darkness inside the bloke than he should, but he doesn’t know when he’ll get the chance again. It’s a little reckless but when has that ever stopped him.

John kisses soft but scorching, like a gift and a promise. A promise to come back. That might be a lie, but it’ll have to do the trick. The bloke needs that as much as he needs a break from Cain’s curse. Not like it costs John much to give it to him.

Dean makes an aching sound in the back of his throat. For a moment John thinks he’s been caught out as he drains more spiritual toxin from the Mark. But then there’s a leg between his own and Dean takes a step back, backs himself into the wall and tugs John along with him. So it’s _that_ kind of sound, acquiescence and frustration and desire all rolled into one. It’s almost enough to distract John from the battle between Cain’s sticky evil and Nergal’s burning power currently waging its way through his mostly human bloodstream. Almost. There always is some kind of _almost_ when it comes to Dean Winchester.

 


	7. Children of the Grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter finishes just before Supernatural S10e14 'The Executioner's Song' and this one starts at the same time as Supernatural S10e23 'Brother's Keeper'

**Some weeks later...**

It turns out that _finding_ Fate wasn’t the problem.

Sure, it took a bloody while, but really John knew from the moment he scryed it, and then Zed saw it, and _then_ there was that rumour at Oblivion. He knew it was a trap. Knew that nothing’s ever that kind of easy. Yet, here they are. In a soggy cave. In the middle of god damned Patagonia, of all bloody places. And John is bleeding, again. Of fucking course. Fucking _Patagonia_.

Maybe he should have let Winchester tag along for the ride and take some of the punches to the face. No, he’d have insisted on driving the whole way to Argentina and John would still be stuck in that precious car of his, without a smoke, and listening to the same three Metallica albums for the six hundredth time. He’d rather be bleeding out in the sodding cave again than put up with _that_. Probably. That angel would’ve come in handy though.

John reaches up gingerly to touch his face. Trying to feel out the damage while Chas is being dead in the corner. John tries not to worry about how _long_ Chas has _been_ being dead, or what the Brujeria have done with Zed. Worrying isn’t going to get them out of it. Worryin’ just puts him off his game. And if this is going to work John needs to be on the very razor’s edge top of his game. Bollocks. He kind of just wants to go to bed.

He presses the bruising around his eye again and winces, again. All he manages to do is confirm that he’s still a sorry mess, and prodding his face isn’t going to help the problem. It really has been a bastard of week.

They even took his sodding smokes.

* * *

 

It’s dark. Too dark to see. And her head feels like it's full of cottonwool. Really painful, sharp and razor edged cottonwool.

“How did you know he would bring her?”

Why is it so dark? That’s important. Isn’t it?

“I didn’t, but _he_ did. We do have Fate on our side, after all.”

Is that…

It’s cold. So fucking cold. Zed’s skin crawls as she shivers. And it’s dark. Why is it so dark? That's important, isn't it?

“Good. Is she ready for the procedure?”

“We believe so, sir.”

God, she can’t think. She needs to think. It’s too dark to think.

“Well, that will have to do. Won’t it?”

There’s a familiar hand on her face. She shivers again, this time it’s in her bones and her blood. Should she run? She should run. But she can’t move. And it’s dark. Why is it so dark?

Why is it so…

In another place, far from here but too close to forget, a lost boy chains a wicked witch to a table. He wants something so bad, Zed can almost taste it. She can feel the edge of his fear and his faith. He’s so scared she might cry.

And then the witch smiles, she knows something the lost boy doesn’t. And Zed tries to call out.

Don’t. Do. It.

But it’s too dark. It’s so damn _dark_...

* * *

 

Adam’s pretty proud of himself. He manages to break the nose on the first cultist that crosses the reaper trap. And the second one is nursing a black eye. The third and the fourth ones _do_ now have him held at blade point, but still. It was a good effort. He just wishes he could have done a little more damage before they thought to threaten Atropos and force him to cooperate.

For her own part Atropos looks like she can’t decide between being proud of him or exasperated with him. He gives her a half shrug. It’s in his blood.

It turns out that it’s his blood they’re after anyway. Cultist number five approaches and slices into Adam’s arm with consecrated black steel. The Dead Sea salt on the blade stings, and the wound stays open. Healing at human speed. As if the whole girlfriend in a golden cage, captured by crazy human-skin-wearing guys thing wasn’t bad enough.

Adam is so focused on the fact he’s bleeding for the first time in this lifetime that he almost doesn’t notice the commotion.

There’s a wet thwacking sound from the hallway.

“Uck, gross,” says a rich female voice. “Didn’t anyone tell these dudes that human skin is ‘like, so last season’.”

“Faith!” snaps another woman.

“Aw, c’mon B, he was ‘like totally’ asking for it.”

“Arg, I said it _once_ , just one time! Can we please let the ‘totally’ thing go?”

Smack. Thud. Crunch.

“Embrace your heritage B. You’d make a hot Cali surfer chick. Bet Fang-face agrees?”

The men currently pinning Adam and Atropos to their respective corners are starting to look concerned. Adam doesn’t blame them. If he was getting up to nefarious human flesh wearing things in the jungle he wouldn’t be too happy about a couple of Slayers showing up either.

With good freaking reason.

Buffy arrives first in a streak of blonde hair and flashing steel. She lands on the back of the nearest cultist and kind of rides him to the ground where she decapitates him like a vamp. Oddly enough that still works, the muffled edge of Adam’s senses pick up the moment the soul detaches from the body. He’s not actually sure what happens to a loose soul in a reaper proof room. Maybe he’s about to find out?

Faith slides in next, literally slides across the floor to land a low kick on another cultist’s shin before any of them have a chance to react. A bleach blond vampire in a leather trenchcoat arrives next. He’s less flashy than the Slayers, just saunters into the doorway and lights a cigarette while watching the action.

“I don’t know about that, luv,” says the vampire, returning to the banter and ignoring the ensuing chaos around him. “All that sun ain’t very good for me complexion. And salt water makes me queasy. Slayer does look good in a bikini, mind.”

A cultist makes the mistake of trying to run for the door. The vampire steps forward and lets his teeth drop to fangs and a vicious snarl.

“Spike, don’t you dare eat that!” Buffy shouts over the cultist whose neck she is currently snapping.

“It’ll just go to waste,” he whines while making a lunge for the now terrified escapee.

“You do not know where he’s been,” Buffy snaps back over another snapping bone. “Remember what happened last time you ate someone that didn’t agree with you?”

“Yes,” Spike says morosely, then he smashes the cultist’s head into the cave wall instead of biting and drops him to the floor. He puts the fangs back where they came from and rolls his shoulders. Then he kicks the now unconscious cultist with more petulance than aggression and goes back to ‘guarding’ the door and smoking.

“So,” Buffy says in another rush of movement, taking out three guys in one astonishing move. “This is the part where we’re meant to get all angstful about how these guys are just humans and stuff, right? Offer to let them live?”

“Yep,” Faith agrees, then lands another killing blow on the cultist currently backing away from her, but formerly holding Adam back to cut into him. They’ve rushed into the room like a violent flood. Or a primordial tide, natural, shimmeringly beautiful, and utterly unstoppable. He can see Death in them, just a tiny edge of Her power, but it’s enough to make his reaper blood and ethereal bones hum in time with it.

“Thing is,” Buffy says with a smirk, “I am just so fucking _sick_ of apocalypses.”

“Also, they interrupted-” Faith cracks two cultists heads together and they drop like stones. “-your honeymoon.”

“True!” Buffy says picking up the thread of conversation as she drives her sword through the second to last flesh wearing goon. “Like, not that Argentina isn’t pretty and all but it’s no summer in Romania with 5 star hotels and vampire stamina to test, you know?”

“Thank you love,” says the vamp in question who then snarls at another cultist who looks like he might escape.

“Word to the wise, guys,” Faith says through a spin kick. “You do _not_ want to get between a Slayer and her creepy married vampire sex fantasy. Trust me.” She does a little faux shudder before returning to the violence. “I learnt that one the hard way.”

Smack. The last cultist hits the ground with a bone breaking crunch.

Buffy winks at Spike over a groaning body and Faith wipes her machete clean on a non-flesh part of one of the cultist’s robes.

“How’s it going Atropos?” Buffy asks as she walks over to the cage, stepping over groaning bodies and somewhat quieter corpses as she goes. “Think we’re even on the whole me keeping Dawnie thing yet?”

“Probably,” Atropos says, frowning but with grudging respect in her tone.

“Cool.” Buffy starts to unlock the cage. It’ obvious that she knows what she’s doing.

Then, Buffy immediately helps Atropos get that damn string off her wrists without anymore small talk, which Adam is more thankful for than he knew he could be. Spike continues to hover in the doorway in something resembling keeping watch while Faith makes her way into the reaper trap to get Adam.

“You know what?” Faith says, talking to Buffy over Adam’s shoulder like he isn’t even there as she unties him. “I never _got_ the whole Winchester thing?”

Buffy looks over from where she is checking an only slightly insulted Atropos over for injury. She gives Adam a long once over that reminds him horribly of his still human state. “The dad was kinda hot,” Buffy says with a shrug.

Faith scrunches up her face. “I thought you were over that whole tall, dark, and violent bit?”

“I can have more than one type!”

“I ‘et a Winchester once,” Spike adds, conversationally. As if that’s a normal thing to say. Goddamn vampires.

“Sure you did honey,” Buffy says exchanging a knowing smirk with Faith.

“I did too!” Spike says, with wounded pride. “Me an’ Drew tangled with some of them Men of Letters back in 1912, it was a right mess. But I tell you this, the head honcho’s name _was_ Winchester.”

Atropos looks the same way Adam feels. Like she is glad of the rescue but she has no idea what to do with all this. Adam really can’t blame her when there are two Slayers too many in the room. Slayers _are_ almost as bad as Winchesters when it comes to pissing of Fate.

* * *

The darkness hurts her eyes. How is that possible?

The witch has the book. And that's bad. That's not how this is meant to go. But someone... daddy? Someone, has Fate's blood and that's enough isn't it? That's important. 

There's a man on the floor, a man she knows... a man John knows? That's important too. Everything is too important and it's too damn dark...

Oscuridad en la tierra.

A green-eyed bird is flying on Fate's wings and it's too late and-

The needle stings in her arm, she wants to fight it. But it's just a little bit too dark... Just a little bit too close to true.

Zed sleeps and a dark thing smiles. At least they're careful when they load her into the smugglers' plane.

 


	8. Warpath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Darkness Rises.

The Darkness Rises. Oh, how She rises.

She can feel them calling her out. All those lambent little souls burning bright and appetizing. She hears the witch break the bonds of the Mark a moment before she feels her freedom. She yearns for it even as the magic washes over Her. Then the bonds finally break. The Mark dissolves and She knows freedom for the first time in aeons and it lasts an achingly short eternity as she floods the sky. Nothing holding her back, nothing locking her in. She rushes forth. Leaving her bindings far behind, for now.

The world is too bright. So painfully, mystifyingly, awfully bright. It shouldn’t be a surprise. It shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t burn like this. She has been surrounded by light for millennia. Trapped, first in an angel, then in two men’s souls. Trapped in nothing but light and power and wanting desires. But it is still a surprise. A shock. A sublime horror all around Her.

She rises, and She rises, She spreads the complex harmonics of Her polyphonous self across the voids. She tastes the clouds and the sky, She blocks the stars. She absorbs Her fill, ozone and hydrogen and all these silly things brought together in a symphony of space and time and dimensions and She expands to fill them all. She drinks it in. She drinks it all in. She spreads her shuddering frequencies as far as She can in Her weakened state.

This world. It tastes like Him. It smells and feels and dreams like Him too. Cast in Her own flesh but moulded, formed, and shaped by His hand. Forced into this unholy form. A light in the Darkness, now overcome.

Then, after the endless seconds of expansion She feels _them_. Fluttering and praying and thinking and feeling. Humans. And sparrows. And insects and trees and crawling things. And they feel so different from this side. So loud and alive and hurting. She knows their names, knows what they mean to the men who have contained her over the ages. She knows that Cain loved his ridiculous bees, remembers how they calmed him even as She raged inside his heart. She remembers the way Dean liked dogs and the ways his skin itched near cats. She remembers Collette’s smile and the way Abaddon looked covered in blood and viscera. She remembers, in a muted kind of way, the taste of a woman’s lips, the touch of a man’s hands, the way cigarettes smell on the skin. But it wasn’t like this.

It had been obscured, translated and controlled by the men who held her back. Even Lucifer, in his contempt had felt _for_ but not _with_ these creatures. Now, laid out and exposed and touching her She knows just how broken these disgusting little creations really are. They scream and they run and they hide. Oh how they fear Her. And oh, how they should.

Sunlight lances through her, touches her, and She thaws and She warms and She feels. Maybe the sun She will keep. Shadows are always darkest before the dawn. Can’t have dawn without the sun, can’t have darkness without a little light. A little heat. She rolls across the sky.

Her senses soon cry out. Stretched too thin. This world wasn’t made to be experienced this way. It was made for flesh. Made from flesh. Made from Her. Twisted and distorted and broken by His will.

She needs flesh, a form. A vessel. A doorway into this playground of His. Something to filter out all this light. At that first painful moment it is still nothing but harmonics and power. Nothing but divine intent and humming bright lit life. It’s not enough. This is how He saw it but it isn’t what He built it for. This thing. This world. These creatures. They were his favourite toy. More favored even than She. It won’t do to see it from the outside, just as it wasn’t enough to see it only through the cracks in demon’s hearts. She wants it all. She wants the truth of it. She wants to know it, and know if it was worth it.

She reaches out for some kind of familiar flesh. At first She reaches for Dean, by some indistinct instinct. But that’s not right. That won’t work. That body was a prison. For Dean as much as it was for her.

She knows God. Has always known him. She knows how He works. How He plots and plans and creates. And as much as He has hurt her, as much as they have fought, She knows what She will find, out there in this morass of meaning and thinking and being. He tied bloodlines to the angels, She remembers Lucifer’s vessels. Remembers the angel’s horror when God first showed them to his favoured son, said ‘look you can be one of them’. Oh how sweet that horror had been. It had been her first hook, her first bite of life since her defeat. A door into the heart of an angel. It had been perfect.

She listens.

The creatures. The mortal men with their half hearted blood magic. They promised Her perfection too. Yes. She can hear them calling to Her, even now. Their own darkness calls out to the truth of Hers. They have one ready for Her. Waiting for Her. They may be rewarded. She reaches out. Focuses Herself down into a smaller space, barely ten dimensions. Seeking, following, seeking. Yes. Just there. Hands bound and head lowered. Waiting.

Oh yes that’s it. That’s the one. Laid out in silver and gold.

The woman lies on a great stone altar, in a cave in a forest. The room is dark, with just enough light coming in to let you know how true and deep a dark it is. It’s just right. The woman has dark hair and soft skin, artist's hands and eyes with a midnight depth. She’s perfect. Those hands will be perfect to re-make the world. To make it peaceful.

Funny thing, God. He locked Her out for so, so very long. Yet He made Her this. This perfect reflection of the vast song of the Darkness made unto flesh and bone. He planned and He plotted and He wrote this possibility of a person into the very fabric of His toys. Just for Her. Just the way He did for his pathetic little angels. Made mirrors on Earth to hold them. To let them feel and see and touch. And taste. Why did He make Her one if He never meant Her to use it? Was it another kind of torture. A gift She was never meant to hold? A punishment for not playing along? Or a hope that one day She might?

Miss Mary Martin. A bloodline direct from Christ and Nebakaneza both. How much wrangling had that taken? How many floods and heartaches and broken ribs did it take to make this woman breathe and bleed. Was it worth it?

She moves, quicker now, making time flow slower than it normally would around her as She speeds toward the target. The offering. His offering.

The Brujeria chant. They call to Her. They offer Her the gift He made. She ignores them. She aches and She opens and She pulls toward the vessel. It really is perfe-

Suddenly, something stops Her. Something cold and pure and incandescent and She screams. She can’t get _in_. Why can’t She get in. Her anger rises. It burns, it writhes and flares and subsumes. A lightless flame of animosity. A black hole of frustration and fear. Was this His plan all along?

Two of the chanting men die instantly as Her fury seeps through them.

There is something _wrong_ with Her vessel. He planned this one for Her and it’s broken. It’s blocked and tarnished and full of something halfway familiar. Something stainless and sweet and wrong. So very wrong. It courses through Zed’s veins like a virus but it isn’t Croatoan. It isn’t demonic. It isn’t Hers. It is something else. Something inhuman and radiant. Something even She cannot combat in Her diminished state.

 _Let me in!_ the Darkness demands of the woman.

 _No_ , the woman whispers back. She’s almost broken. Almost given up. Drugged and bound, but still she refuses. She fights back. Find some spark of power left in her muddled mind. How _dare_ she.

But Amara is weak too. Too weak to fight this. She isn’t ready. Not yet. But She will be. Oh how She will be.

This close She recognises Zed. Recognises her from fragments of Dean’s memories. She couldn’t see and hear everything he felt, only when he was scared, or angry, or jealous. She had only seen glimpses of Zed. But She knows her now. Knows what she means and to whom. Oh yes, someone will pay for this. Not yet. But soon. John Constantine will pay for this insult in blood and in bone. She will make sure of it.

She leaves the shell that was once Zed Martin. The shell that was once meant to be Hers. She leaves it on the floor in a cave surrounded by dying mages. She leaves as much of Herself, as much of Her darkness as She can spare. She leaves it in their blood and their air. It won't be long.

She thinks about taking the father instead, but men have been her prisons far too long for that to feel right.

She follows the bloodline back and out and across instead. Seeking, seeking, ah, yes. A cousin on the mother’s side. And so near dear Dean too. Oh yes, that will do. It is young and squealing and new, unformed and unable to fight. It is dying. Almost dead. But She can fix that. It will do just fine. It isn’t perfect. But it doesn’t need to be. Not when Amara already is.

 

 


	9. Lucky Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gave up pacing 20 minutes ago.

John gave up pacing 20 minutes ago and slumped down in the far corner of the cell. May as well have his back to the wall literally as well as figuratively.

They’re late. They’re _very_ late. He hasn’t had a fag in over an hour and Chas is still bloody well dead. John is getting all the way down to considering plan bloody F. Plan F is really fucking bad.

There’s something blocking the magic in Chas, and in everything. Arthurian magic is all about the bedrock of Britain, clear waters and the light of the sun. There’s none of that down here but there’s something else at work too, something he can’t quite place. Something keeping Death out. He starts counting down from a hundred, just to keep his mind open, trying to block out the rising panic that’ll just block his will.

He’s down to 8 when he hears the crashing and finally starts to bloody breathe properly again. He doesn’t bother getting up off the floor.

“Took you bloody long enough,” John accuses when Buffy finally tumbles into the room and rips the cell door off its hinges.

“I _told_ you not to let him out until he said thanks,” Faith says as she wanders into view. “Otherwise he just won’t. How’s it Hellblazer?” She tilts her head to him in a nod. Then, when she sees Chas her tone and expression change. “Shit.”

“That’s about right,” John agrees. Doesn’t look. If he doesn’t look he can convince himself it isn’t as bad as it is.

Spike wanders in then with Atropos and the kid-reaper that must have been Adam Winchester, close on his heels.

The vampire takes one look at Chas, goes even paler and offers John a fag without even being badgered. Bugger. It must be even worse than he thought if a sodding vampire is taking pity him. John gets up off the floor anyway, ignores most of the pain it causes, and grunts his thanks to Spike. He lets the vampire light the cigarette for him before he finally glances back at Chas’ body and swallows back the harsh smoke.

He doesn’t like Lucky Strikes but he’ll take what he can get.

“Where’s Ripper?” John asks the haphazard little group, mostly to avoid talking about the obvious.

“Giles and Willow are trying to trace the magic in the summoning circle,” Buffy says over her shoulder. “Xander went after the Seer.” She’s checking Chas for a pulse. John tries not to hope.

“Zed?” John asks.

“Yep, that's the Seer. The stinky skin wearing dudes took her somewhere while we were on recon,” Faith explains.

Right.

“You really a reaper?” John says, turning on the youngest Winchester where he huddles next to Atropos.

The lad nods but he doesn’t look nearly certain enough for John’s liking.

“Bring him back then,” John tilts his head towards Chas. Still doesn’t sodding look.

“It doesn’t work that way,” littlest Winchester says with more metal than his weak chin suggests he should have.

“It does for him,” John says.

Adam just shakes his head.

“You owe me, kid.” John takes a step closer to him, lets every ounce of anger show. “And we both know I could _make_ you.”

“Not here you can’t,” Adam raises his chin in defiance. “And you wouldn’t, even if you could.” That’s when John sees it. He’s bruised. That's awful bloody human.

Adam may have been made a reaper by one of the most powerful forces John has ever had the dubious pleasure of knowing, but he’s human while he’s inside the bloody wards. Damn it. He really _can’t_ do it. Not here. It's almost a relief. Even John knows he probably wouldn’t bind a reaper, he doesn’t need every sodding reaper on the planet on his tail, after all. Not to mention Death herself. Maybe it is better to have the temptation removed entirely. Because this is Chas at stake, and John doesn’t think he wants to know how far this will play out.

“I’ll do it.” A clear voice strikes through the tension.

Every eye in the room turns to Atropos in surprise.

“What happens to what’s dead stays dead?” Faith says, voicing what they’re all thinking with a sarcastic drawl. Even Adam looks shocked.

“She’s right luv, it’s not your usual tune?” John doesn’t like the obvious caution in his voice, but you got to be sure with her lot.

Atropos shrugs one shoulder sharply and flicks her hair. “He’s not dead. His soul is still there. And his destiny remains unfulfilled. We have a vested interest.”

She’s blagging it but John’s never been more grateful for the meddling bird in all his life. Something cold and ugly lets go of his ribs for a moment and which ain't as good as it sounds when he actually tastes the putrid air around them.

“And anyway,” Atropos adds as she picks her way daintily over to where Chas lies in a crumpled heap. “You’ve all died at least once. I think we lost that battle a long time ago, don’t you?”

She glances back to Adam who smiles at her like she’s wonderful, despite his own toes being firmly on the party line. John files that away for later. You never know what might be worth knowing ‘til you need to know it.

Buffy laughs but everyone else just stares. Atropos crouches down next to Chas and places one dainty hand on his forehead and frowns. That’s not good. Frowning is never good in these situations. In John’s opinion Fate shouldn’t look confused about anything that John hasn’t personally orchestrated.

Fuck.

He starts patting his pockets and prays, to no one in particular, that today is not the day he finally forgets to carry that 4ccs of mouse blood.

Something that can block Fate isn't the kind of thing he wants anything to do with. Yet it's just the sort of bollocks he ends up neck deep in every other Monday. They need to get outside, and they need to get out now.

* * *

 

Somewhere much further north, Dean Winchester prepares chimichangas as an offering for Death and hopes for salvation he cannot afford.


	10. Deus Ex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Constantine plays his final hand.

John leads the way out even though everyone who knows him knows he's a shite leader. He’s the only one who can see all the magical pitfalls and traps, as it turns out. Even when they get outside in the pre-dawn humidity he’s got an advantage and keeps the lead. Buffy drops back a bit at that point. Whispered conversations with her pet vampire. John ignores it in favour of getting them clear of all that anti-reaper warding but glances back now and then to check. He doesn't really think it'll be enough but he hopes so hard it hurts.

One of the baby slayers trails behind them and carries Chas up the hill like he’s weightless. Pretty little thing, John notes, she’s got red hair and an eagerness that hasn’t been killed off yet. Always impressive in this cursed war they're all fighting. He can’t remember her name for the life of him.

Ripper is already out there when they get to the makeshift and now abandoned helipad, he’s conversing with Rosenberg in what must be serious tones. Ripper's always serious tones these days. Bloody Watchers.

John winks at Ripper then nods to the witch when she turns to face their approach. She narrows her eyes and her face pinches slightly when she meets his gaze. John snorts at that. She’s the only reason he managed to get in touch with this lot as quick as he did. She felt the Darkness rising and reached out deeper and further than she normally would to find a lead. Reached out to him, even. She knew he was going to be here, but she can’t quite bring herself to approve of him anyway. It warms the heart, it really does.

Xander Harris comes jogging up to talk in Rosenberg's ear and she’s distracted from her disapproval by whatever he tells her. 

“Harris, Rosenberg. Ripper,” John says, the first two casually cold but the last with something close to affection. If only for the shudder that the old nickname always inspires in the now uptight Rupert Giles.

“John,” Ripper says with the kind of calm that only comes from years of officiously managing the affairs of very deadly teenage girls. “I really do wish you wouldn’t persist with that dreadful moniker.”

“Ain’t wishin’ hard enough then, mate.” John’s grin is almost genuine and he slaps the bloke on the back for good measure. “Maybe try use less big words too. My tiny pig brain, remember?”

Giles groans at the reminder of their shared history but otherwise doesn’t retaliate. John could really do with another fag.

Xander ignores the exchange entirely and John in particular. He interrupts instead. “We’ve got tracking on the chopper,” Xander says. “Not sure how much good it’ll do considering all the mojo these mooks are throwing off, but why not, right?” He manages to both shrug and shoulder an oversized and over-customised hunting crossbow. Xander’s grin is just a little bit too manic for full sanity, but when is anyone on this hellfucked-save-the-world journey ever fully sane. John doesn't know the bloke well, but finds that he approves.

“Good job Xander,” Buffy says as she jogs up the hill. She has the baby slayer carrying Chas in tow. Buffy talks and moves like a general these days. Even her precious Scoobie Gang are merely more important cogs in her strategy. It suits her, John thinks. 

“Show Willow,” Buffy commands with another general’s nod to the baby slayer.

The reminder hits John hard. He’d half hoped Chas would just wake up as soon as they got outside the wards. Stupid.

The baby slayer lays Chas on the ground in front of Rosenberg like he’s an offering to an Old God. John doesn’t like that. Unfortunately, John also knows that Willow Rosenberg might be his next best shot at getting Chas back soon and whole. The bird might be more righteous than any of the Righteous Men John’s ever known, but when it comes to raw power John just hasn’t got her kind of juice.

“Um thanks,” Rosenberg says to the baby slayer. “But, what’s this for?”

"Bring him back," John says, without preamble. "Trigger the magic, bring him back."

"I don't know if I can," says Rosenberg and winces. She kneels down and places her hands on Chas anyway. "He's not really dead, so Arthur's Curse won't trigger, nice work by the way. I tried it on Buff once but I'm not enough of a sociopath to get the whole 'lesser knights' thing to stick."

She shrugs like wanting to be more of sociopath so your magic works better (or worse depending on who you ask) doesn't make you at least a bit of a fucking sociopath to start with. 

"The thing I don't understand," Rosenberg continues, "is what could have the kind of power to stop  _ that  _ kind of mojo working. It's all death, life, cycle of re-birth-y level soul deep magic kinda deal, you've got to be some real powerful kind of no-good to get around that.

"The Darkness," says Atropos, looking up into the sky. "She rises." It's both an answer and a warning.

And that She does. The sky over Argentina is filling with Black smoke, and John's got no other choices left.  

* * *

Death is currently… unimpressed. Yes, unimpressed is probably the best word for the experience which Death is currently undergoing.

Death is not surprised, of course, nothing surprises Death and this was always a possibility. But it is still an unwelcome turn of events and a reminder why free will is not to be underestimated. It had been the point of the test, yet Death is still disappointed when they fail.

Dean Winchester, of whom Death had previously been almost fond, has just thrust Death’s own scythe into Death’s corporeal form. A corporeal form which Dean Winchester’s own subconsciousness had created, which seems to add insult to injury for some reason. Death is very unimpressed indeed. 

Death had been intending to help due to no coercion other than a vague fondness for the world and Creation itself. It had not been entirely selfless, knowing, as Death does, that God is willfully unavailable and that the only thing standing between the world and The Darkness is Dean Winchester’s scars. Nonetheless Death had fully intended to trap Dean in his younger brother’s Heaven at no real cost to either soul. An eternity on the road hunting memories. It wouldn’t have been that far from their lives in situe, and it certainly would have been safer and longer by matters of magnitude. For them, and for the world. It was simple, magnanimous and ultimately kind; as Death often is.

But no. Death should have known, really. Nothing involving Winchesters could go so smoothly as all that.

Death is aware that the corporeal form has disintegrated on impact with the iridium and stardust blade of Death’s scythe. That almost hurt. Pain is not something Death has need of. The pain always comes before Death’s cold touch. 

Yes, Death is very unimpressed indeed. This may be a sign that Death has spent too much time around humanity, but it is quite possible that Death is actually insulted. And on that note, Death shifts reality and leaves the apes to it. 

Only Dean Winchester would be self important enough to believe that he could kill Death. But even as Death seriously considers that, something tugs deep in Death’s core. The Rite of AshKente is being invoked not 6,000 miles away. Death is reminded that there is at least one other mortal capable of holding such delusions. Maybe Dream was right afterall, maybe Death really is too fond of the thorns in their sides. Maybe Death is too fond of humanity in general, and especially those who visit the Veil more often than most. Boredom can be a very dangerous thing when you are Endless. As Morpheus himself had proved.

Death expresses disatisfaction in what would be a sigh were Death current flesh bound. With that completed, Death moves through the aether to respond to The Call. There are other options. There always are. But Death answers these summons anyway, even this one. Even knowing what Constantine is about ask for. One day Death will reap God and Darkness both, but for now Death will see what the humans come up with to stave off that day, however inevitable the end may be. 

Contrary to popular opinion Death is an optimist at heart. Hope comes naturally to Death and always has. It dies so often, even if it does come back more times than Prophets, Constantines and Winchesters combined. Hope dies so often that it is almost part of Death itself. 

Death leaves the Winchesters to it, and almost smiles even as the Darkness rises around them all. Maybe it’s time for another holiday.

* * *

"Bille?" says John. At the exact same moment as Adam says, "Boss?"

"Bit of both, actually," says Billie, with that smug promise smirk of hers.

John steps up to the edge of his magic circle and smirks back. "Alright then," he says. "I wanna call in a favour."

"Ah ah ah," says Billie. "You made a deal with Death, not me."

"Yeah, but right now you are Death right, if the shoe fits love, then so does the deal. That's old magic and we all know it."

She shrugs. "Fine. What do you want, Constantine?"

"Travel. Time and space," John says, cutting to the chase. "Two hours into the past, and as close to half a foot from Dean Winchester as I can get while not being inside or through something that isn't air."

Billie laughs at him. 

"No can do Johnny boy. Can't cross our own timeline. Twenty minutes ago Dean Winchester put Death's scythe right through Death's own heart. I've been ferrying folk to the other side for decades and that is still some of the most uncalled for shit I've ever seen."

Fuck. John had really been hoping for some leniency here. But he isn't going to get it if Dean's pissed off every bloody reaper on the planet. He gets one try at this and he's got to get it just right.

Zed's missing but drugged up on angel blood, Chas isn't dead enough to not be dead, and John's running out of deals. He looks down at Chas's too pale face and thinks about the power of a really good sacrifice. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out an amulet instead.

"Alright then love," says John. "Take me wherever  _ this _ ought to work."

He holds up his hand and lets the little brass demon head dangle from his fingers. 

"Oh," says Atropos.

"Is that…" Ripper stutters through his layers of toffy surprise.

Yes, it bloody is. 

It looks innocuous if you don't know what it is. _The Tunisian Amulet_. Given to one of God's lovers back when God paid attention and did that kind of thing. It glows hot in His presence. Or it should. John stole it off Dean Winchester and swapped it for a replica a decade ago, and now he's about to use it to maybe save the bloke's soul. And the world's. It's kind of ironic. John wonders if God will get that joke, it might help if He does.

Billie glares at John, but he knows she can do it. She'd have had too much fun shooting him down by now if she couldn't. 

John laughs as the world is swept away around him. He's got a reputation to keep up, after all. John's figured out what, and who, the Darkness is. If he can't save Winchester and Chas, at least he's going to try and save the world. He doesn't have much power for this kind of bollocks. But he'll do it the best way he knows how. Nag or trick some other bugger into doing it for him.

In this case, that other bugger just happens to be God.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](http://kittyaugust.tumblr.com/) \- <http://kittyaugust.tumblr.com/>
> 
> Also, I _live_ for comments so if you're able to take the time to let me know what you thought you can literally make my day.


End file.
